


Watson was born on a Wednesday

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Watson's Woes prompts, dont know what I'm doing, prob lots of Joanlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 14,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4250373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of small fics based on daily prompts as part of the Watson's Woes series most probably joanlock-centric. Joan was born on a Wednesday but her life is not all woe. Sherlock was born on a Thursday, he still has miles to go.<br/>---<br/>Prompt #31: Putting on a Show. Canon is full of colourful characters, and we all know Holmes loves an audience for his deductions. Whether it's a grand gesture, breaking the fourth wall, or just the conclusion of a case in front of a crowd, make an audience part of today's entry.</p><p>Chapter 28: "SexBlanketBabe Gets Kudos and Comments."<br/>Joan writes her own fic. Okay. I broke the fourth wall and much to my shame stepped in. I apologize for the silliness - but it's the last prompt! Woo hoo! Now I am free to ... to ... probably go write more drivel ;)</p><p>Thanks for reading along and commenting this month!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tempting Fate - what's the worst that could happen....

The day had been hot and muggy and night followed suit. All the brownstone windows sat opened hoping to catch any small cooling breeze that came its way. Watson, in tank top and shorts strolled into the brownstone library and eyed Sherlock. He sat bare-chested and cross-legged on the floor trying to concentrate on the files before him. 

She knew he wanted it, but at this point she didn't care. Joan found the spot on the sofa where the warm breath of outdoor air hit best, sat down and tauntingly looked down at him.

Sherlock looked up, eyes wide with desire and the first flush of anger, "I can't believe you would ..."

Joan shrugged her shoulder at him and took a long, luxurious lick of the ice cream cone in her hand.

He suddenly moved up to his knees, "That is my ice cream cone! The last ice cream cone! You had yours earlier."

Joan looked teasingly at him as she took another lick, "As someone said to me yesterday, while they devoured the last piece of pie, MY piece of pie, "You snooze, you loose!" She gleefully taunted him with the sweet cold treat in her hand.

Sherlock quickly made his way over to her on his knees and stared her down. "Let me introduce you to another old axiom, Watson, 'Right makes might.'"

Joan judged the look in his eye and quickly assessed his body language. He wouldn't. Would he? He respected her too much. He wouldn't lay a hand on her. She looked at his face once more ... but then .... this was ice cream. 

Sherlock lunged at her, wrapping his hand around hers and the cone and forcing it towards him while Joan resisted as much as possible. "Sherlock! Don't!" Unfortunately for Joan, Sherlock was stronger and she was suddenly struck with giggles at the ridiculousness of the situation. But she didn't give in.

Both stretched their open mouths towards the cone as Sherlock inched it towards his face. He plunged the melting ice cream top into his mouth to the wails of Watson, "Stop, no!" She moved her mouth onto the cone as it left his lips and bit a chunk away. The cone was being systematically demolished between their faces amid chuckles and giggles and cries of "Mine" and "No!" and "Let go!"

In the struggle a big glob of ice cream dropped from the cone on to her thigh and without thought he, he bowed his head and sucked it up, lingering just a second longer than he should. A soft expelling of air from her lips and his name whispered more in a moan than admonishment followed.

He looked up at her and the mood between them changed. Sherlock cleared his throat, and pressed his lips together into a thin smile. "Sorry. Got carried away." He stood up and offered her his hand, to help her stand. "Look at you, you are a mess!" Her tank top was stained, the crumbs of the cone that filled her lap fell as she stood and ice cream smears covered her face. She was beautiful - he quickly squelched the thought. 

Watson surveyed him, "I wouldn't point fingers if I were you Mr. Ice Cream Cone Bits In My Chest Hairs." She smiled. He had the remnants of vanilla ice cream on his lips. The thought crossed her mind, but she refused to let herself go there.

"Come on then. Let's get you cleaned up."

"Me! You are equally a mess, if not more so. This is all your fault, you know."

"What? I'm not the one who appropriated another's ice cream cone and then taunted him ..."

The bickering, good natured and meant to diffuse other urges continued as they made their way upstairs.


	2. The meaning of daisies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July 2nd fic prompt - yellow

A clear glass globe full of water and daisies shone in the sunlight that fell across the kitchen table. The white petals and round yellow middles always made her smile. She called them fried egg flowers when she was little. 

Joan walked up to the cabinet and pulled out a glass, "What's up with the flowers?" Pretty as they were, flowers were a rarity at the brownstone.

Sherlock looked up briefly from his work. "Cold case," he said as if that explained everything. 

She rolled her eyes and opened the refrigerator, "You think the victim was beaten to death with a bunch of daisies?" Her delivery was so deadpan that Sherlock had to look at her to affirm that she was indeed being facetious. 

"Pollen." He was being extremely terse this morning she thought. He picked up a small rack of slides in which tiny yellow flecks were visible. "I think it holds the key to the true location of the murder."

"Ah," Joan poured her water. "And here I thought you'd purchased them for me." He stared at her, looking confused; his eyes squinting slightly. She explained, "Four years ago today we met for the first time."

"And that is an occasion to be marked with the purchase of flowers?"

"No ... It's just I have a fondness for daisies and um ... Forget I mentioned it." She turned and took the water pitcher back to refrigerator to hide her embarrassment. 

"Your welcome to take them to your room or wherever," Sherlock pointed at the flowers with his chin. "I have no further use for them."

"I think they're fine just where they are." Joan picked up her glass and made her way out of the kitchen. 

"Oh by the way," Sherlock called out over his shoulder, "If you've no plans for this evening, I made reservations for us at Amarillo's."

Joan stopped and looked at his back as he continued working at the counter. "Cold case?"

"No," he shrugged. "Just thought it'd be a nice change." He looked at her from over his shoulder and Joan smiled at the timid and almost fearful look on his face. 

Joan walked over to the table and picked up her flowers. "Okay. It's a date."

A smile threatened on Sherlock's face and he turned back to cleaning up the remnants of his slide preparation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daisies in flower lore carry the significance of 'loyal love.'


	3. Leaf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continues from yesterday's fic. An unexpected package arrives at the brownstone. Written quickly so excuse any holes or typos. Thanks for reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watson Woes Prompt #3 - an image prompt of a dry leaf with a half skull delicately carved out of it.  
> Here is a link to the artist's website since I'm tech challenged and can't insert the image itself. The skull leaf is at the very bottom. (His work is quite marvelous and worth taking a look at)  
> http://www.lorenzomanuelduran.es/work/artworks/2011-2012-leaf-figurative/  
> \-------------------------------------------

Joan cleared a spot on the mantle next to Angus and carefully set the daisies in place. She stepped back and took a look. Angus seemed quite happy with the flowers by his side. It'd been a strange four years with Sherlock. Who would have thought she could get attached to a phrenology bust. A knock at the door interrupted her reverie.

A courier traded her a flat package for her signature. The neatly typed label was addressed to both her and Sherlock but with no return address. 

Studying the wrapping as she walked, she called out "Sherlock!" 

"Right here." He was in the lock room setting down his slides. 

"Were you expecting a package?" 

He shook his head no and took his turn examining the brown paper wrapping before opening it. In their line of work an unexpected package with no return address was cause for alarm.

They set it down on a clean spot on the table. "I doubt its explosives, doesn't sound like it contains any loose materials, what say we be brave, hmm?"

Joan handed him a pair of latex gloves, took a step back and let him have the honor. "You know before I met you, I never worried about the mail exploding." 

"What a dull life you must have led." He carefully inserted the letter opener between a gap in the brown paper, sliced it open and let the contents slide out onto the table. "Well, that was a bit of let down," he teased as she took a step back to his side. "I was hoping for at least a mild explosion."

She peered at the bubble wrapped contents. "Unwrap it."

Sherlock did as he was told. A matted frame containing a carefully detailed image of half a skull carved from a dried leaf presented itself.

They stared, examining the work. "It's quite lovely." Joan admired the careful incisions necessary to produce the delicate image. 

Sherlock flipped the image around to where a message had been handwritten: "Happy anniversary!" was all it said.

"No signature..." Joan observed.

"It doesn't need a signature," Sherlock said dryly. "I recognize the handwriting. Moriarty."

Slow anger rose within Joan at this woman's insertion of herself into their lives once more. She crossed her arms, her words came clipped and sharp, "Have you been writing to her? I wish you would keep me out of your communiques." 

He faced her, looking at her in the eye to make sure she understood, "I have not written or had any contact with her in over a year. I've apologized for my previous breach of your trust. If she knows the date of our first meeting and any significance it might have to us, it is through some other means."

Joan uncrossed her arms and accepted his words, "Do you think it's some sort of threat?"

"I don't know. It seems more whimsical than threatening. Her threats don't lean towards the subtle."

"Hmm. We'll need to be a little more careful in any case don't you think?"

"Yes." Sherlock continued studying the piece. Joan walked into the library, picked up the glass of water she had set down while arranging the daisies and made her way upstairs, deep in thought.


	4. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #4 - Well traveled Watson. Watson and foreign lands. 
> 
> Takes place on the same day as the previous two chapters.

Sherlock, much to Joan's surprise, wore a tie with his dark grey suit. She didn't remark on it but thought he looked extremely handsome. Joan wore a deep blue cocktail dress, v-necked and flare skirted, her hair swooped up in a French twist. Sherlock's breath caught at the sight of her. He diverted attention by telling her to hurry up, they'd lose their reservation. 

Contrary to its name, Amarillo's was not a Tex-Mex eatery but an upscale bistro specializing in Caribbean cuisine. It was quiet and relatively dark considering its yellow themed decor. Joan and Sherlock sat at a corner table, a bejeweled candle softly glowing between them as they finished their meal. 

Conversation, when desired, always was easy between them. They genuinely enjoyed each other's company and even after all their time together could still have lively and challenging discussions on all sorts of topics. 

"...Should you ever be offered it, I would advise avoiding the butter tea in Mongolia. At least it didn't agree with my system." Sherlock's harrowing tale of his investigations in Ulan Batur ended on a humorous note. 

Joan crinkled her nose at him, "I'll remember that." She sighed, "I need to travel more. I've barely seen Europe and the little bit of China where my grandparents lived ..."

"Perhaps we'll start taking more international cases, hmm." A tiny wave of anxiety washed through him at the thought of Watson leaving for parts unknown. He was getting to be such a dependent sot.

"I'd like that. You know, I've always wanted to visit Angel Falls in Venezuela." Her eyes glowed with the thought. "We could even do a side trip to the Amazon..."

Sherlock was relieved to hear her add the "we" to her plans, although if she wanted to travel without him, it was her prerogative. He wouldn't mind ... much.

"I'll see what kind of cases I can dredge up in South America." 

Pablo interrupted to take their dessert order and clear the dishes. A small lull in the conversation followed his departure. 

Joan observed her partner. He was fidgeting with the table cloth, straightening the candle, stealing an odd glance up at her. He was making her nervous. "Okay, Sherlock. What is it? We don't have to go to the Amazon if that ..."

"No, no. It's not that, it's ... I just uhm ... want to say thank you." He looked at her as he continued. "If you had walked out four years ago, like I asked of you and as any one else would have, I think I would have relapsed and died within that first year."

"Sherlock, no. I..."

"No Watson. Hear me out. You've stood as my friend and confidante and even when I ..." He looked down and paused, "when I abandoned you, you allowed me back into your life. And my relapse last year ..." Sherlock looked at her again, "I'm only here because of you. Thank you."

Joan's face pinched as she contained her tears. "That's not true. You're selling yourself short." The tips of her fingers touched his where they lay on the table. "You said it best, years ago, we are better together. If I hadn't stayed ... well, I can't say I'd be dead but I'd probably be lost. Still wondering where and with whom I belonged. You've brought me to me ..." She smiled and shook her head. "If that makes any sense. You are my ...."

"Here we are, two flans, specialty of the house." Pablo was a great waiter but had terrible timing.

Each sat back in their chairs and composed themselves. Sherlock nodded at the man, less to say thank you than to dismiss him.

"Thank you," Joan picked up her spoon. She looked across at Sherlock and they shared a look that left no need for any more words.


	5. The List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #5 - note to self

Sherlock stood deep in thought before his latest wall of crazy; layers of photos, papers and other ephemera from the current case, pinned and intersected with red thread, taunted him to find connections. 

Joan behind him was on a mission of her own. She walked into the library and scoured the area around the sofa, lifting books, moving papers. She was sure she'd left it here.

Sherlock paid her no mind. She finally had to ask him, "Have you seen my grocery list. I thought I left it on the sofa."

He turned slowly and looked at her rather dismissively. His eyes led hers to a spot on the wall before him.

A rather embarrassed Joan saw her list pinned next to a photo of the murder suspect. Among the items she had listed for purchase were several scribbles and doodles. The most prominent being "Joan Watson, Private Eye" surrounded by a billboard of tiny stars under which sat "Jerklock Holmes" followed by several cartoonish looking exclamation points. 

Joan quickly took the list down and folded it in half. They side-eyed each other but said nothing. 

"I'm going to the bodega. Need anything?" She mumbled as a courtesy as she quickly made her exit from the room.

"A new partner perhaps ..." he muttered.

She marched back towards him and punched him hard on the arm, "You are such a jerk!"

He winced. His partner did not pull any punches. Sherlock smiled to himself as he returned to his task.


	6. To sleep, perchance to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #6: "imitate the action of the tiger," Shakespeare, Henry V

The blue light of multiple screens flickered across Sherlock's face.. "That's Alistair, isn't it?" Joan stood cross-armed at the entrance to the room.

"Yes. Henry V." Sherlock whispered. His attention was focused on the action played out in grainy black and white on the screens before him.

Joan quietly sat next to him and watched.

Sherlock began to recite the lines with Alistair; softly at first, his voice gaining strength with each phrase uttered:

_In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man_  
_As modest stillness and humility,_  
_But when the blast of war blows in our ears,_  
_Then imitate the action of the tiger:_  
_Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,_  
_Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage._

He paused the performance. "He was quite remarkable." Sherlock's eyes betrayed his sadness.

Joan nodded in agreement.

"That passage in particular was one of his favorites. He told me he would recite that to himself most mornings; he'd put on his tiger persona to do battle against the prejudices he faced daily and .... and against his own demons."

Sherlock abruptly handed Joan the remote and stood, "I'm due at a meeting with Alfredo." He buttoned his jacket and looked down to where she sat. "If you'd like, we can watch the rest of this on my return?"

"I'd like that." Joan smiled up at him. Sherlock nodded and left the room.


	7. She sat on the stoop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #7 - unwanted attention  
> He tried to avoid her gaze.  
> \--------------------

She sat on the stoop and watched him with interest as he walked up the street. Sherlock assiduously avoided her gaze. Her puppy-dog eyes followed him, begging for attention. He quickened his pace. 

On the way back from the store, he chose to walk on the other side of the street. She watched him intently. Sherlock ducked his head and looked away. She was obviously homeless and in need of help. 

He delivered the grocery items to Watson, who'd been waiting on his arrival to finish her dessert. 

"There you are, Watson." He handed her the cream with a flourish. "Now if you'll excuse me," he opened the fridge and nimbly removed a couple of cheesesticks from the doorshelf, discretely ferreting them away in his jacket pocket. Sherlock stole a glance at Watson. She was concentrating on her work. Good.

He cleared his throat and continued, "I have a small matter to attend to, I shan't be more than a few minutes." He hurriedly left the kitchen before Watson could ask any questions. 

\-------

She licked his fingers, one after the other. Her dark eyes shone with gratitude. Sherlock broke off another piece of the cheesestick and fed it to her. "There you are, there you are." He patted her head. "Poor thing," he tsked, "You'll be alright." The dog licked at his chin. He fed the poor bedraggled old retriever the rest of the cheese. She was thin, malnourished, no doubt had been on her own for a month or so by the looks of it and desperately in need of a bath.

Sherlock held her face, scratching her under the chin as he spoke to her, "We are going to have to do some fast talking, but I think once Watson takes a look at you, she will lift her "no more animals" edict ... Well, at least until we can find you a good home, hmm?" He slipped the leash's collar round her neck. "Come on then. Let's go home and see what mum says." The dog happily complied.


	8. Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andre and Marcus Bell spend time together.
> 
> Prompt #8 - lines from a poem by Oscar Wilde. This was a difficult one for me, not sure I caught the spirit of the prompt.
> 
> "I never saw a man who looked  
> With such a wistful eye  
> Upon that little tent of blue  
> Which prisoners call the sky,  
> And at every drifting cloud that went  
> With sails of silver by."

Andre grew quiet. 

The night was thick and sticky. By the backyard fence, the fireflies did their best through the wet heat, glowing and fading back to darkness in slow motion. Inside, Aunt Sally's birthday party was in full swing; family gathered near the fans and opened windows to chat and enjoy their cake.

Marcus and Andre sat on the back door steps and took long cold drinks from the bottles of soda. Aunt Sally would not allow alcohol in her home.

"You don't know what it's like, little brother." His voice took on the tone Marcus knew all too well. Andre spent a good part of their childhood trying to educate Marcus as to the ways of the world, to watch out for him and, ironically, to protect him from the dangers that populated their young lives. At some point their roles reversed. 

Andre paused. They listened to the crickets and muffled sounds of the city around them. Marcus waited.

"You lose all hope. You forget what it's like beyond the walls. The memory of family, laughter .... it all goes away. You just have to find a way to survive ... A reason to survive. Prison, a lot of times, is worse than the crime ... You know?"

Marcus nodded his head. He didn't know and he wasn't sure he agreed with his brother's sentiments but he did know that Andre need to be listened to. This was the first time Andre opened up about his experiences and Marcus was willing to listen.


	9. The right thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #9 - Healer's Choice. One person Watson chose not to save.  
> Be warned: character death. Not the usual light and fluffy.

For most of her adult life, Joan had anticipated this moment, dreaded it, knew that at some point it would come and she would not be able to stop it. 

Her father lay before her, almost unrecognizable from his injuries. Joggers had found him beneath a bench in Prospect Park early this morning - unconscious, beaten, bleeding. Random violence against an old man incapable of defending himself, they said. Joan squeezed her eyes shut at the thought of what he must have gone through; not understanding what was being done to him or why. Tears dropped and she didn't bother to wipe them away. 

Joan held on to her father's hand; memories washed over her... Every cruel word she had ever said to him, all the opportunities she squandered to spend just a few moments with him, the multitude of times she should have been out there looking for him rather than selfishly thinking she was doing what was best for him by letting him be .... she should have done more ... so much more. "I'm sorry, daddy."

The call was made to her mother and brother in Massachusetts. Both deferred to her. It was her decision to make. Joan was the doctor. Joan was the strong one. Neither expressed a wish to come see him. Oren and Mary assuaged their guilt by claiming he would not even know they were there. Mary had made her peace with her ex-husband long ago; she had already said her good-byes to him. Oren wanted to keep the memory of his father just as he had been the last time he saw him. Joan did not have that luxury. 

The monitors beeped in steady rhythm, tubes pushed oxygen into his lungs and the IV bag dripped life into his veins. It was her decision. She needed to do what was best for her dad.

She chose against life. She chose to let him go. The life sustaining means were pulled and she watched him labor, gasping for air, finally taking his last breath, unconscious and not understanding what was happening. The monitors flatlined and he was gone. Time of death was called. "We'll give you a few minutes," they said and they left the room in silence. 

She stared at the lifeless body. He was no longer there. Joan suddenly panicked, wanting him back, no matter what his condition, she didn't want him to go. She had made the wrong choice. It was selfishness on her part to let him go. Sobs escaped her and her breathing signaled her distress. 

Joan had kept Sherlock out of the room, not wanting a witness to her sorrow and now regretted it. She covered her face with her hands and bent forward; her body shook uncontrollably. She cried for her father and for herself. 

Sherlock's hands grabbed hold of her shoulders, brought her up and guided her to him. "You did the right thing."

Joan buried her face in his chest and let him support her; thankful that Sherlock never did as he was asked. 

"You did the right thing," he repeated. "You were there for him. He knew you loved him very much." Joan tried to stop her crying, not wanting to put Sherlock in an uncomfortable position but found she couldn't stop.

She finally pulled herself away from him, wiping tears from her face with the back of her hand. "I need to call my mom and tell her."

"No." His voice was firm. "Sit down and take a moment. I'll call Mary."

Sherlock sat her down and left the room. Joan stood and walked to her father's bedside and stared once more at the lifeless body before her. She touched his hand and tears started again. "I love you, daddy. I hope you can forgive me."


	10. The supply closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt # 10: Use the POV of one or more of the police for today's entry.  
> Humor and PG-13.  
> This prompt just called for Smitty's return. This supply closet incident is mentioned in passing in the first chapter of A Small Plus. If you'd like to catch up on the previous Smitty stories they are here: http://archiveofourown.org/series/149346  
> If not, just know that Smitty, a rookie with the NYPD, has a history of previous "episodes" with the consultants. Assumes a relationship between Joan and Sherlock.

Marcus walked up the hall towards him, "Have you seen Holmes?"

"Nope. Didn't even know he was here." 

"Yeah. He and Joan were here reviewing a couple of cold cases. Anyway, if you see them, tell them the captain would like to speak to him."

"Will do." Smitty turned back to the desk. They made him nervous, the consultants. The rookie had literally seen more of those two than he could ever want to, more than anyone probably would ever want to. 

He shook his head and sorted papers. Images presented themselves to him that he'd rather forget. Absentmindedly, he reached for the stapler and in so doing knocked his coffee cup over onto the desk. "Damn it!" He jumped up to grab paper towels from the coffee area and found none. 

Smitty quickly made his way to the supply closet. Locked. Damn it, again. It was supposed to stay open during the day. He fumbled for his keys and unlocked the door, pushing it open.

Sherlock's lily white rear-end was the first to greet him; his pants were at his ankles and Joan's legs wrapped around his torso. They were so involved with each other that neither noticed him. 

Smitty could do nothing but sigh and roll his eyes. This apparently was his lot in life. The consultants. Again.

"Good lord! Don't you two have a home!" He hissed at them as he quickly closed the closet door behind him. Why he protected them in these moments was beyond him.

Caught totally by surprise, Sherlock jumped, Joan moaned and then gasped. They turned and stared at Smitty with deer in the headlight eyes.

"Geez! Really? This is where you work!" Smitty lectured them. "What is wrong with you two? Is it the element of risk? Do you want to get caught?"

Joan closed her eyes and lay her head back, steadying her breath, "God, Smitty, why is it always you!"

Sherlock gathered his wits about him and stared menacingly at Smitty, "As much as I would like to discuss our sexual proclivities with you, Ms. Watson and I are very much occupied at the moment." Joan squirmed beneath him, making Sherlock speak with a little more urgency. "If you don't mind?"

"I just need paper towels. Excuse me." A resigned Smitty reached over the couple and retrieved the package. He exited the closet, locking the door behind him. 

Muttering to himself about the lack of control of others and trying to remember the last time he and John, his partner, had demonstrated as much reckless passion as these two, he mopped up the mess on his desk.

A few minutes later, Smitty watched as Sherlock emerged from the supply closet, buttoning his jacket. He stood and looked around, making sure no one was watching. He then discreetly gave the door behind him a soft wrap. A few seconds later, Joan emerged, immaculate, and carrying a notepad. 

As they passed by his desk, he heard Joan whisper something about a condom. Sherlock stopped in his tracks for a second and then shrugged, "The odds would be astronomical." They continued walking past. 

Smitty reached for his phone and texted John:  
[You are not going to believe this one. Are you free for lunch?].


	11. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 11 - coat porn
> 
> Written extremely fast so and at the last minute. Point out typos if you'd like.

The wind whipping up from the shores of the river swirled around them sending a cold chill through her and her hair flying in all directions. Joan grabbed at the blowing strands and twisted them down, tucking the ends around to the front and ducking her neck into her jacket. Her arms returned to their previous position crossed in front and holding on to herself for warmth. She bounced as she stood beside him. 

Sherlock watched her until he could no longer keep quiet. "Go home. You're freezing. I told you you needed a warmer jacket."

Joan controlled her chattering teeth before speaking. "I am not freezing. I'm cold but it's tolerable and I won't leave you out here, completely alone on the shore of the river, waiting for ... for who knows what kind of a crazy person to show up."

Sherlock shook his head at her as he took off his scarf. "Here put this on." He knew she was cold when she took it without protest. As she wrapped the scarf around her neck, he continued. "I don't think he's crazy. I think he's a juvenile enamored of spy movies. Who else would choose to drop off a flash drive in person in the dead of night besides the desolate shores of the East River." He put on his most dramatic voice to describe their location. 

She smiled and fixed the scarf so it covered her ears as well. Joan was still freezing but would not admit it nor would she leave him alone. "Still, he could be a nefarious juvenile or a decoy of some kind."

He watched her shake as she talked. "Watson this is absurd. Go home. I can handle this on my own. I don't know why you chose that thin cloth jacket. Yes, it looks quite attractive on you but we are in the dark here. The heavier coat would have been a better choice."

"I'm not leaving, Sherlock, and okay, I admit it. I should have brought a heavier jacket. Do you really think it's just a kid?"

"I believe he's one of the younger members of Everyone. He doesn't want the rest of the group knowing of his involvement in the government cover-up, so he is going "low tech" to provide us the information." He made air quotes with his gloved hands before shoving them back into the warm confines of his pea-coat's pockets.

Joan stomped her feet moving her body to and fro in an effort to keep warm. 

He squinted at her, swung his arms impatiently and looked away. He suddenly turned his attention back to her. "Bloody hell." He started unbuttoning his coat.

Joan protested, "What are you doing? No. I won't take your jacket. Button back up. You'll freeze in shirt sleeves!"

"I'm not stupid Watson," he grimaced at her. He finished unbuttoning his jacket. "Here ..." He opened his jacket up on one side and motioned for her to come to him. Joan stood momentarily confused. 

"Come on then. It's cold." His tone was that false gruff she knew so well, meant to draw attention away from a kind act. 

Joan moved forward and began placing her body up against his.

"Wait." Sherlock stopped her. "Open your jacket. Body to body warmth is more efficient. " Joan quickly opened her jacket and the cold air on her thin shirt propelled her into his open arms. She wrapped her arms around him and Sherlock quickly closed the jacket as much as he could around her. His body tensed at her first touch and she knew this was a struggle for him. She gently lay her face flat against his chest and listened to the thumping of his heart. "Thank you," she whispered. The chattering of teeth and cold shivers of her body eased in his embrace. Sherlock moved one arm over her shoulders and pulled her a little closer. She felt his body begin to relax against hers.

The newness of the experience added to the heat both their bodies were producing. They adjusted, getting comfortable, moving to close the gaps and spaces between them. She nestled in the warmth his coat and his arms provided her. 

"Okay?" he asked. She nodded her head against his chest and he allowed himself the luxury of laying his cheek on top of her head. 

A beam of light split the darkness and pinned them to the spot. Followed by the lazy British drawl of a female's voice. "Well, well, isn't this romantic in a sickeningly sweet sort of way."

Sherlock and Joan squinted, trying to see beyond the light. Although both already knew who was there.


	12. Alpha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 12: Doyle vs. dogs - feature a dog in your story
> 
> This is a continuation of chapter 7 above, Sherlock brings home a stray dog.

As they walked the short distance home, Sherlock mulled over the best way to present his new friend to Watson. Subterfuge was quickly rejected as too difficult under the circumstances and, more likely than not, counterproductive in winning over Watson to the temporary housing of the canine. Besides, he ruminated, Watson was developing quite a knack for seeing through his contrivances. He comforted himself with the thought that he rarely told Watson lies; he did, however, on occasion, present her the truth with embellishments and omissions. 

The retriever walked happily beside him, obviously glad to have the human's help and oblivious to the varied grades and morals of possibilities Sherlock was winnowing through on her behalf. A brief encounter with Mrs. Gonzales momentarily derailed his train of thought. The dog seemed quite pleased with the new found attention she received. They continued there sojourn. 

After as much careful deliberation as could be had in the five minutes it took to get home, a direct and honest approach was decided upon as best and most convenient. Sherlock went around to the back of the brownstone, leading his new charge into the kitchen. 

"That was quick." Watson, at the sink, washed the last of the soiled utensils and did not turn around. 

Sherlock stood quietly, preparing his arguments, waiting for Watson to face them. 

The sound of panting caught Joan's attention. A set of scenarios quickly presented themselves one after the other as to why Sherlock would be panting. None of the scenarios which ended in her housemate emitting such a noise were remotely pleasant. Joan turned the water off, reached for a hand towel and pivoted towards ... them.

"Before you say anything," Sherlock started his spiel, "this poor animal is in need of our help. She is obviously homeless, undernourished ..."

"And in dire need of a bath." Watson looked pityingly at the retriever and then quickly up at Sherlock. "But we are not going to keep her."

"Obviously not," Sherlock continued, "our lifestyle is not suitable to the proper care of a canine. But I thought temporary lodging might be in order." Sherlock was surprised at the ease with which Watson accepted the situation; relieved, he mentally stored away the bulleted points of his persuasive argument for future use. 

Watson looked from one puppy dog face to the other and found herself unable to resist either. "Take her outside. It's a nice enough day that the hose water should be comfortable for her. I'll get the shampoo we keep for Iggy's visits. That should work, don't you think?"

Sherlock brightened, "Get the old towels from the bottom of the linen closet also, if you would, please." He released his hold on the leash in order to remove his jacket. The old dog stood beside him, confused as to what was happening but enjoying being inside and by his new friend's side. 

Joan approached Sherlock to take his jacket and the dog moved and barked a warning at her.

"It's okay, puppy," Joan cooed. "I won't hurt you." She extended her hand out for the retriever to sniff but the dog would have none of it, barking another warning at her as Watson moved to take the jacket from Sherlock's hands. 

"She must be scared. She was extremely docile with me." Sherlock apologized for his charge, as he rolled up his sleeves. The leash was retrieved from the floor and he hastily lead the dog outside, lest Watson form an unfavorable opinion of her.

The bathing of the dog was sheer chaos. Sherlock ended up as soaked as if he himself had bathed and Joan stayed back for the most part at the insistence of the animal. 

"I don't understand her aggressive attitude towards you, Watson. She seemed just fine when we met Mrs. Gonzales on the way here. The dog was extremely friendly towards her.

"Great," Watson muttered. "Then it's just me she hates."

The retriever's dirt-caked fur, once washed, showed its true golden nature. Her appetite was good and as far as Sherlock could tell the dog had no injuries. She would not allow Joan close enough to examine her. 

Watson made a vet appointment for her to be scanned for an identification chip and to be given a proper examination. She was saddened by the distinct aversion the animal showed her. No amount of sweet words or kibbly treats swayed the dog's favor. Throughout the day, the retriever stayed at Sherlock's side and kept a wary distance between herself and Joan. 

As evening fell, the three found themselves in the library; clean, dry and well-fed, they settled in for a quiet evening. 

Sherlock sat reading on the floor with his new friend asleep at his side. Joan, on the sofa, found a photo in the file she was reviewing that she thought Sherlock needed to see. She moved down to sit beside him. The old dog immediately sat up and huffed at her for daring to approach. A thought occurred to Watson. 

"You know, I don't think she minds me approaching her so much as she does me approaching you."

Sherlock looked at her quizzically. 

"I think she has claimed you as hers and sees me as some sort of threat." A lopsided grin spread on Sherlock's face. 

"Surely, you can't be serious, Watson. You are jealous of a dog?"

Joan scowled at him, "No. The dog is jealous of me." 

She stood up and moved a few feet away from him. "Come here," she asked of Sherlock. He stood and approached her. The dog watched them suspiciously. 

"Now as antithetical as it may be to your nature, hug me."

"Watson, I ..."

"Do it. Think of it as an experiment."

He reached and gently placed his arms around her small waist. Watson moved in and reciprocated. They adjusted limbs and body stance and got closer. Sherlock, though he would never admit it, found the embrace quite pleasurable and rather comforting.

The dog jumped up and charged towards them, barking around them, jumping on Sherlock. She wasn't attempting to bite either one of them, but she was very much upset.

They broke out of the embrace though still holding onto to each other's waists and looked down at the dog.

"You may be onto something, Watson. I think I have been spoken for." He looked at the pup and tried to reassure her. "It's alright, it's alright."

Sherlock turned to Watson, "We are going to have to show her that you are the alpha in this domestic arrangement if she is to remain with us, no matter how temporarily."

Watson's eyes slightly widened at his reference to her being the alpha among them. A smirk crossed her face as she watched the old dog try to make her way in between them. "Well, at least I know what to call her now." Watson turned her attention back to the puppy. "It's okay, Jamie, it's okay. I won't take away your man."

Sherlock faced Watson registering surprise at first followed by a rare smile. They still held on to one another, much to Jamie's annoyance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Gonzales and Iggy (Ignacio) are original characters. Their stories can be found on my tumblr. Should I get a chance to continue this story, they will most likely have a role to play.


	13. The page that wasn't there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 13: A Tale Foretold. Watson comes across the first thing she ever wrote as a youth. It turns out to be prophetic.
> 
> Chapter 13: The page that wasn't there

Joan rummaged through the old box of elementary and middle school work, searching for her "Cosa Nostra Scrapbook." She remembered an article she clipped and carefully pasted in the book while in the fifth grade, on the Dante crime family. Joan thought the names in the report might prove relevant to their current case. The piece was from a neighborhood paper and she could find no reference to it elsewhere. As she sorted through her old school reports, essays, math and science projects, memories popped up before her her like soap bubbles presenting themselves and then drifting away.

Writing had fascinated the young Joan. She had watched in awe as her stepfather showed her how to put lines and arcs and dots together to create letters. The alphabet was mastered joyfully and she moved on to forming words. She enjoyed the physical act of writing - carefully drawing each letter, placing them in a special sequence that transformed the individual letters into a separate unit that carried specific meaning. Joan remembered thinking it was magic.

She continued skimming through the many pages she'd written as a child, and began to notice that all her work was observational. Her thoughts, feelings, emotions or personal perspectives were absent from her stories and reports. The writing took on an almost clinical nature. 

The memory flashed before her unbidden. First grade. The assignment was to write about her family. Joan remembered.... She was brutally honest in it, as only a child of six could be, and she carefully detailed her feelings. Joan wrote of the sadness she felt because her daddy was sick and he was sent away all alone and the anger she had towards her mom for leaving her daddy and taking her and her brother away from him .... 

Joan closed her eyes as she remembered her mom's reaction on seeing her story. Her mom, the strong and steady Mary Watson, cried when she read Joan's words. At six, it was the first time she remembered seeing her mom cry. Holding a handkerchief to her face Mary, gave the page back to her daughter and asked her to leave the room. Joan remembered watching from the staircase bannister as her mother bent at the waist, rocked and shook with the force of quiet sobs. She took the page to her room, realizing that her feelings and her words had hurt her mom and tore the page into small pieces before throwing it in the trash.

Her mom never mentioned it again, nor did Joan. But Joan learned from it. Her feelings were her own, never to be shared, nor written, lest she wound someone again as deeply as she had her mother. 

A tear trickled down her cheek as she kept sorting through the contents of the box. Joan thought about the journal she deleted last year and wondered if she had destroyed it to spare his feelings or hers.


	14. It's not even poisonous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 14 - Not So Cute. It's easy to be shmoopy when there are adorable baby animals involved. Try to create something shmoopy with a less-than-adorable and/or not-quite-a-baby animal.

"Sherlock!" Joan yelled for him with terror in her voice. "Sherlock! Quick! I need you!"

"Watson! .... Watson!" he cried out for her as he galloped up the stairs, taking two at a time to reach her room. He burst in to find her standing on her bed staring at a fixed spot by the window. "What is it? Are you alright?" He approached the bed, trying to get her to look at him.

She pointed. Near the baseboard, unperturbed by the activity around her, sat a large spider.

Sherlock, relieved, sat on her bed and pulled at her shirt sleeve to make her sit next to him. Watson had a bit of a phobia.

"It is just a spider, Watson."

Joan did not take her eyes off the monster and slowly sat next to Sherlock on her knees. "It is a very large and hairy spider," she whispered. "Get rid of it."

"You have brought down criminal empires, faced all configurations of weaponry unarmed, confronted killers and other unsavory sorts, and yet you sit cowering before an arachnid and a non-poisonous one at that I might add." Sherlock squinted in the direction of eight-legged intruder. "You know, she's actually kind of cute." 

"We struck this bargain long ago, Sherlock - you get rid of spiders for me and I don't mention to anyone how ticklish you are .... Please."

He side-eyed her. This was not the time to educate her on the virtues of arachnids. Watson's fear was the one small irrational part of one of the most rational people he knew.

"Alright. I'll go get a jar..." Sherlock eyes moved towards the spider, "Where'd it go?"

Joan jumped round behind him and grabbed him by the shoulders. "That's it. I'm sleeping in your room tonight."

With that she jumped off the bed and ran out of the room, leaving him to find and slay the monster, or at least capture it and take it outside.


	15. Some days are honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #15: That Old Saying. The old Egyptian saying "ابن الوزّ عوّام. (ibn il-wazz 3awwam.) ("The son of a goose is a swimmer.") is roughly the same sentiment as the English "Like father, like son." Whether it's one of these statements or another adage, include some classic saying in today's entry. Bonus points if you also manage to include a goose!
> 
> This gave me a chance to use one of my favorites, an old Egyptian/Arabic saying. This fic was written at breakneck speed (going from 0 to 1,000 words in under two hours is fast for me) so excuse any bumps, bad transitions and typos. I think this is one I need to fix up and expand on if I ever get a chance - it is shmoopy with potential joanlock.

Joan was dragging herself home. The day had consisted of following half a dozen false leads only to find out that Bell and her partner had apprehended the suspect who subsequently confessed. She was happy this case was off their backs. It had been tedious work and she and Sherlock had spent several nights into the wee hours analyzing the financial data of grain companies, followed by days of monotonous leg work. And then, to top it all off, late this afternoon, she and her brother had a massive fight via the telephone about their mother. Joan was ready to go home and cocoon herself in for the night. 

She got a text from Sherlock as she exited the subway. "Please come on up to the roof as soon as you get home. Thanks." Joan rolled her eyes and sighed, what now. He could not have immersed them into another case this quickly, could he? She was in no mood. Joan stared at the message. It was odd - not only did he use please and thank you but he used words rather than his usual shorthand. 

 

Sherlock made his way back home. The small victory of arresting their suspect and having him confess did nothing to improve his mood. He and Watson had been working hard for days on cases that were beneath them - simple, pedestrian problems on which they wasted their skills. And to top it off, he was unable to procure the grape leaves Ms Hudson had sent him out to get for her. Why she needed that particular brand was not properly explained but she had been adamant about him getting "Ganzo Grape Leaves," in a jar not a can..... His phone chimed. "Meet me on the roof as soon as you get in." Sherlock ran through possible reasons for Watson's request - from problems with the hives to her telling him she was leaving. After these past few days, he didn't see how he could blame her. 

Sherlock arrived at the brownstone first and charged up the stairs to the roof. Watson was nowhere to be found. What he did find was the roof illuminated in strands upon strands of fairy lights. Large rust, ochre and deep crimson pillows were set up in a semi-circle on a multicolored mat, small candles were lit against the encroaching dusk, the scent of spices ...

"Sherlock!" Watson's voice surprised him from behind. "It's beautiful. When did you do all this?" 

Joan's face reflected such joy at the sight of the roof, that for a second he almost considered taking credit for the roof's transformation. He took the honest route, "I take it this is not you're doing, then?" 

Joan shook her head no. "You didn't send me a text, did you?" He in turn shook his head no.

A clink and a clatter behind them drew their attention. Ms. Hudson came through the door with a tray full of covered dishes. "Oh, you're here already. I was hoping to have it all perfect before you got here and ..."

"It's gorgeous already." Joan piped in.

Sherlock stepped up and took the tray from her. Ms. Hudson motioned for him to set it by the large pillows. 

"May I ask what is going on?" Sherlock couldn't decipher what exactly was happening. "You obviously sent me on a wild goose chase to set this up, but why."

Ms. Hudson smiled, motioning them in the direction of the food and cushions. "Sit." She sat next to them and started putting out the dishes from the tray. Joan looked at Sherlock and they exchanged shrugs and questioning looks, finding the other just as intrigued as to what was going on.

Ms. Hudson continued working as she talked. "You two have been having such a rough go of it these last few weeks, months even. You both just keep your head down and keep working and, well..." She set down a covered ceramic plate among the other dishes. "There is an old Arabic saying I learned when I lived in Alexandria, 'yōm ʿasal, yōm baṣal'." Roughly translated it means : Some days are onions, some days are honey. You've been having nothing but onion days for a long time, I thought it be nice for you to share a honey day. So, I've made several traditional Moraccan dishes for you, cous-cous with golden raisins, dates in that dish there and well ... You'll figure it out I'm sure."

Sherlock and Joan sat pleasantly dazed. Joan spoke up first, "Ms. Hudson, so much work, you shouldn't have ... It's all so perfect."

Ms. Hudson waved her off, "No bother at all. You two have gone out of your way for me on more than one occasion. Oh I forgot, there is sweet tea in the carafe and home made baklava over here for dessert." She moved to get up. 

Sherlock spoke, "Surely, you'll stay and share dinner with us?"

Ms. Hudson stood over them, "No, this is time for just you two to enjoy." She picked up the tray. "And no cellphones or work for the rest of the evening." The look she gave them was serious. "I'll lock up downstairs..." 

"Thank you seems insufficient to say, but thank you." Sherlock stood with her.

"Sit, enjoy ..." She turned and was quickly gone.

Sherlock sat back down and looked at Joan. A smile played upon her lips, "I think we have a fairy godmother." 

He watched the candlelight play on her face and started to get lost in her eyes, when he snapped himself out of it. Sherlock reached for the plate of dates as a distraction and offered her one. Joan took one and, emboldened by the ambience, or so she excused her behavior to herself later on, she brought it to his lips. To her surprise he opened his mouth and took it, lightly brushing her fingertips with his lips.

"Some days are honey ..." Joan whispered.


	16. Mornings at the brownstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 16. Image of burning room
> 
> Chapter 16 - mornings at the brownstone.

Joan walked into the kitchen. She had yet to see Sherlock this morning but the smell of freshly brewed coffee told her he was somewhere about. She poured herself a cup and went over to the fridge for the milk. 

The opening of the refrigerator door was instantaneously followed by a click, a frizzle and the smell of something burning. Joan turned towards their crime scene doll house to find the small living room on fire. She set the milk on the counter, reached for the kitchen fire extinguisher and put out the blaze. 

Briefly examining the scene, she took the paper and pen left by the side of the house. "Oily rag fire, set on purpose. Dead guy in corner, bludgeoned." 

Joan finish preparing her coffee, put away the milk and made her way upstairs.


	17. "Sherlock! The Whip!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 17: .... Watson has been accused of having a “pawky sense of humour” by her flatmate. Incorporate humour into your entry in some way – even grim or black humour ...

He sat on the floor, legs straight out in front of him, flexing his striped-socked toes while observing Clyde amble towards his lettuce.

Watson casually walked into the library, "Okay. I'm ready to go. Do you think I could borrow your whip?" She adjusted her fingerless, elbow length gloves, and then rested her hands on her hips.

Sherlock stumbled up to his feet, mouth agape and apparently dumbstruck as he attempted to process the image before him.

She stood in a black leather and lace bustier, cinched in tight at the waist, which sent her breasts voluptuously upwards and dangerously close to spilling out of their rounded leather cups. The side-slit mini-skirt was so minuscule as to be almost completely unnecessary but did nicely accentuate the bare flesh of her upper thighs where the garter belts stretched to meet the top of her black fishnet stockings. A pair of stilettos - razor sharp, six inches high, with silver studs at the heel and toe, graced her feet. Her hair was sleekly pulled back and up into a ponytail which sat high atop her head. Lips and nails singed in flaming red and the smokey eye make up gave her a dangerous feline look.

Sherlock's heart beat a mile a minute and his mouth went dry. He didn't know where to look or what to say. A squeak came from his lips that sounded like "Wsssnnn."

Joan let him squirm and shifted her weight while he got himself together. 

He coughed and cleared his throat. "Watson? ... You are going out? ... like uh ... With uh ...?" He swallowed hard. 

"Mm hmm. You've been hounding me to get out of the house, to socialize for days, so I'm taking your advise. Mistress is taking me to few parties. She said she would show me the ropes."

Sherlock began to regain his senses. Surely, she was yanking his chain. Watson would never. A hint of disbelief colored his words. "Oh, oh ... Good for you." 

Joan stared at him. "So? ... The whip? Can I borrow it?"

A sick feeling dropped into his stomach. What if she meant it, what if she truly intended to go out ... His questions were answered by a tiny voice, 'it really is none of your concern is it, mate?' A small internal argument proceeded to break out about what, if anything, he should do, while he outwardly continued to stare wide-eyed at his almost unrecognizable Watson.

Her voice jarred him back, "Sherlock! The whip!" He jumped and obeyed her command, pulling the braided whip from its spot on a lower shelf.

As he approached her with it, he realized he had to speak. "Watson, I know it's not my place to tell you what you can or can't do but take a moment and consider if this is perhaps to sudden a lurch ..."

Joan took the whip from his hands and took a step towards him. "Repeat what you just said." Her eyes bored into his. 

"It's not my place to tell you what you should do but..."

Joan stopped him again, "Ah!" She poked at his chest with the handle of the whip to punctuate her words, "It is not your place to tell me how to live my life. Say it again!"

Sherlock dutifully repeated the words. 

"Good!" Joan handed him back the whip. "I decide when I go out and with whom, not you. So stop pestering me."

To his relief, his Watson was emerging from behind the dominatrix garb. "So, you aren't going out, correct?" She narrowed her eyes at him and he stammered on. "Not that I have anything to say about it ... I'm ... just asking ..." His voice trailed off, his thoughts turned to just how beautiful she was. 

Joan sighed, not sure that her charade had really sunk through to him. "No Sherlock, I would never go out in public like this. The point is you need to stop meddling in my life. Maybe I like sitting home with you."

Sherlock clutched the whip to his chest and nodded. "Understood. ... Perhaps you could wear this ensemble while you sit around the house with me ..." He gave a little shrug and tried to raise his eyes to hers instead of staying where they were currently focused. 

She pursed her lips and shoved him, "Sherlock!" 

He looked back at her, his eyes brimming with false innocence. "What?"

Joan hid a smile, "Make yourself useful. If you're going to leer, do it while you help me off with these shoes. They are killing me."

Sherlock, ever one to follow orders from a female donned in leather, was on his knees immediately, helping her free her toes from their torturers. 

Sherlock massaged a foot while she held on to his head for balance. "Your poor feet." He looked up at her with a submissive, yet slightly sly look. "It's going to hurt to walk on these. Would you like me to carry you upstairs?" He raised his eyebrows to her, as he continued to hold her leg and caress her foot.

This was not how this scenario was supposed to end she thought. She stroked the top of his head while she considered his ridiculous offer. It would be a treat to have him at her beck and call. A submissive Sherlock ... hmm ... It could be fun ... she had clothes that needed ironing ...


	18. Am not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 18: The Games We Play. Involve a game of some sort in your story, whether it's a round of whist, an intense night of Cluedo, or a Pac-Man tournament.
> 
> Okay I lied, I was able to write a little something for today's prompt. This popped into my head as I was packing snacks for a trip. 
> 
> Chapter 18: Am not!

S: I no longer wish to play. 

J: You're just mad because you keep losing. 

S: I am not angry. The game is pointless. 

J: All games are pointless in the long run. It's just fun playing.

S: I, apparently, have a more stringent definition of fun than you do.

J: No. You're just being a stick in the mud.

S: Am not.

J: Are too.

M: Would you two stop? 

J: Sorry Marcus

S: My apologies detective. 

M: Here. Have some peanut butter crackers. 

Marcus wondered if he should bring crayons next time he drew stakeout duty with Holmes and Joan.

S: (mumbly whisper) am not


	19. Pinned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Watson finds a note pinned to her door. 
> 
> Chapter 19: Pinned. It's been a long weekend, the last thing Joan wants to see is the handwritten note scrawled out by Sherlock pinned to her door.  
> \------  
> Just got back home and wrote this in under an hour, so excuse the quality and typos, I'll go back in and fix stuff later on.

Why she agreed to attend the wedding of her second cousin on her step-father's side was beyond her. Joan plunked her small overnight bag in the foyer. She was tired and irritable, wanting nothing more than a shower and her own bed. Yes, the wedding had been spectacular and posh and set in a beautiful small inn in the Hamptons but she paid the cost by having to mingle with a lot of people she didn't particularly like and spend over seventy percent of her time explaining why she was there "alone" and why she wasn't married .... such a pretty girl, so bright, should be married.... Ugh .. No more family weddings no matter how good the location or menu. 

Joan trudged upstairs to her room. As she approached her bedroom she blinked and opened her eyes wide in disbelief. There was a note, scrawled on yellow notepad paper, pinned to her door: "Coitus in progress." 

"What in the ..." She ripped the note off the door. He had gone too far this time! She stood immobilized as two strong urges fought within her. Part of her wanted to bust in and tell him exactly what she thought of him and the other part did not want to see how he was defiling her room. 

A voice behind her made Joan jump. "Ah, Watson, you're home early!" Sherlock appeared bouncingly happy behind her, carrying what appeared to be a small salad.

"Sherlock!" She started scolding, "What do you think you are doing?" She shook the yellow paper in his face. "This is my room! MY room! You and your consorts can have any room in the house and you have the gall to take over my bedroom for your sexual escapades. This is unacceptable! You have crossed...."

"Watson! .... Watson, stop!" He tried several times to interrupt her tirade. "Joan! Listen to me!" The use of her name caught her off guard and she stopped.

"We chose your room because of the open space available. The lack of obtrusive furnishings made it the best terrain for ..."

"I don't want to know what or how you and your, your ...."

He stopped her again, "OUR ... Our tortoise ..."

Joan's mouth shut and her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of of what he had just said. She looked at him in slight disgust, "What have you done to Clyde? If you are using him in some sort of ... "

He was getting angry now as well, "What! How could you possibly imagine I would ..." Sherlock took a breath and calmed himself. "In your absence I was approached by a friend of one of our irregulars. He is the owner of two female tortoises who are ready for breeding and asked if I would be interested in allowing Clyde to provide services."

Joan stared at him for a couple of beats trying to make sense of it all. She closed her eyes finally and shook her head. "You should have asked me about this before you agreed. Clyde is part mine you know. I think he is too young for all this."

"You may be right," Sherlock conceded. "Clyde has shown absolutely no interest in the females. We have a webcam set up and so far they have yet to go near each other."

Joan was struck by the absurdity of it all. Three tortoises were not having sex in her room and Sherlock had spent the two days while she was away watching them. His weekend sounded as bad as hers.


	20. The Easy Inn Motel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP #23: Improvised Tools. For a truly desperate person anything can be utilized as a tool or as a weapon.
> 
> Chapter 20: The Easy Inn  
> Possibly implausible joanlock but joanlock just the same - for Julie who I believe had asked me for a motel fic a long time ago. Hope you had a good birthday.

"I am not spending the night in this place." Joan shuddered. The garish pink neon lips buzzed as they glowed from the corner of the Easy Inn Motel sign. The street around the motel boasted its sordid identity - rundown bars, empty store fronts and a few ladies whose attire spoke of their occupation. 

"I'm sorry Watson. I know this is uncomfortable but we are in no position to be particular." They stood outside the hotel as he tried to convince her this was for the best. "If we use a credit card or check for lodgings, she will know where we are within the hour. I was not expecting to find us "on the lam" in upstate New York this evening and left the brownstone with only forty-five dollars in cash. That plus your twenty, makes the Easy Inn the only lodging within our means. We'll need funds for tomorrow as well. Plus, it is starting to snow." He grimaced upwards as a flurry of white flakes descended and made their way around them. 

Joan shook her head at him as he opened the door for her, and walked through carefully. "I'm not blaming you but this place just looks so slimey. I already feel like I need to wash my hands."

An older woman, stocky and grey-haired, bounced up from behind the registration desk, "Listen here missy, this is possibly the cleanest hotel you have ever walked into. Sheets washed everyday, floors, bathrooms, all inspected by me. You two will be lucky if I decide to let you have a room."

Sherlock threw an arm around Joan and hugged her to him. "She didn't mean it. She's just nervousness." He turned the English accent and manners way up to the irresistibly charming setting. "It's our first time" he stage-whispered in a slightly embarrassed manner and gave Joan's shoulder a squeeze. 

Joan caught on and leaned in closer to Sherlock, looking down and then timidly up at the inn-owner, "I'm sorry. I'm just uhm you know ... nervous." She followed the statement with a weak smile. 

"Alright, then." The older woman conceded. "A few hours or the night?"

"Night." Sherlock smiled at her and nodded.

"Humph." The owner looked him up and down as if determining what his capabilities might truly be. "We don't have heat at the moment, just so you know. I'll take two dollars and fifty cents off the nightly rate."

"Oh, that's not a problem. We'll make our own heat, won't we, sweetheart?" Sherlock again gave her a squeeze and a look that made Joan feel a light pink spread on her cheeks. 

He was rather enjoying the role-playing and the manner in which Watson just looked at him was an added bonus. 

\------

The room's decor, if the word could be applied to what greeted them when they opened the door, was mid-20th century atrocious. The bedside lamps were fitted with red bulbs and black lace covered the shades. The bedspread was faux leopard skin - the pink on black spots being a dead giveaway to the "faux" nature of the fur. 

Even Sherlock's face registered dismay as they inspected the room and he inwardly gave thanks for the minimal light the red bulbs provided. 

Joan walked into the bathroom. "Well, she wasn't lying," she called back out to Sherlock. "This place is spotless." 

She came out to find Sherlock had pulled back the bedspread and was going through the sheeting and inspecting the mattress with his small pocket flashlight. "Bedbug free. Which is more than you can say about most of the high end hotels in the City." 

Joan smirked at him. "Good." She tugged her coat closer around her. "But it is really cold in here." 

"Take off your clothes and get in bed." His pea-coat was already off and his jacket was following suit. 

Joan stood still and silently watched him.

"Come Watson, you know body heat is one of the best ways to keep warm. You don't have to take your clothes off if you don't trust me. Just get in bed." He undid his shirt sleeve buttons and motioned at her with his head. 

Joan rolled her eyes and acquiesced. "I trust you." She went round to the other side of the bed. It's just me I don't trust, she thought to herself. She removed her coat, shoes, and jacket and slid into bed. The sheets were ice cold. She pulled the ugly bedspread up over herself as Sherlock got in beside her. 

"Not to worry Watson. I just removed the belt but kept my trousers firmly in place. I know how nudity upsets your rather Victorian sensibilities."

Joan hated when he went that route. Contrary to the conclusion he had come to years ago, she was no prude. She started wriggling under the covers, while he watched her through the dim red haze. Her pants came out from underneath the leopard spread, followed by her shirt. 

"Take off your pants." Her words were said more as a challenge to him than a request. 

He removed his trousers immediately. "There." He produced them triumphantly for her inspection. "You do know that to any proper British gent, 'pants' means what you Yanks call underwear. So, if you'd like I can..."

The knob on the room's door jangled. Some one was trying to force it open, pushing against it and forcibly moving the door knob. They both sat up. Sherlock instantaneously placed himself closer in towards and in front of Watson, preparing himself for a fight. 

A female voice laughed and spoke loudly from outside, "Thats not our room, baby. Come 'ere, over here." The deeper voice of a man, words slurred and unintelligible answered. Joan and Sherlock listened as the voices faded away down the hall. 

His heart as well as hers pounded with the adrenaline rush of fear. Sherlock got out of bed, took one of the room chairs and placed it firmly up against the doorknob. Joan also got up, retrieving her keys from her purse and threaded the key ring through the belt from her pants. She made a loop and hung the keys precariously from the knob.

"There. Any slight movement of the door and those will drop. Between that and your chair, we'll at least be warned someone's trying to break in."

"Excellent!" Sherlock directed his gaze to her. This time he cursed the minimal light of the red bulbs as Watson stood before him.

She shivered under his gaze, not necessarily from the cold.

"Come on, back to bed!" he urged.

They scooted in from their respective sides of the bed, bumping into each other in the middle and pulling up the covers together. Joan could feel the heat that radiated from Sherlock; he always ran a little warmer than most. She tentatively leaned, just slightly, into him; her head brushed against his shoulder. 

He reacted, not by recoiling at her touch, as she expected, but by moving in closer. Sherlock felt the lithe muscles of her arm rub against his, giving him the courage to move his arm and with her help, place it around her shoulders. Strong and soft under his hand, he urged her closer to him. Joan lay her cheek on top of his chest and her fingers lightly stroked the swirls of his chest hair. His heart raced. Her heart pounded against him. 

They lay quietly, their breath and heart beats the only sounds, enjoying the new feeling of skin on skin and the warmth it provided. Her leg brushed up against his hairy one, gently placing itself atop his. Sherlock could not contain a sigh of pleasure. 

He rubbed her back gently, "Are you alright, I mean ... you know, comfortable with this?" he whispered.

Joan lifted her head from his chest and brought her mouth to his to answer the question. His lips happily accepted her response. Her lips captured his lower lip and tugged at it. She spoke into his mouth, "This is the best way to stave off hypothermia, yes?" 

"Yes," he solemnly responded, with eyes closed. Her lips once more found his and his hands felt free to rove across her back, fingers charting new paths as they moved downward. She wriggled in pleasure under his touch and their legs entwined. 

She stopped his explorations with a small move away, "Sherlock?"

"Mmm" he responded. His mouth had found her neck and he nuzzled as she tried to speak. 

"Shouldn't we work on some sort of plan ..." Her train of thought was derailed by his nibbling on her ear.

"Is that what you'd rather do?" Sherlock breathed the words into her ear. 

There was no response from her other than a low satisfied moan as his hand found its destination.


	21. Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #24: A Long-Suffering Woman: Involve Ms. Hudson in Watson’s whump in some fashion.
> 
> Chapter 21: Regrets.   
> "Ms. Hudson is crying in the kitchen."

Sherlock walked into the library, straight over to where Joan sat on the floor and squatted before her. She looked up from her nest of crime scene photos.

"Ms. Hudson is crying in the kitchen." His face registered his concern.

"Why?"

"I don't know. I exited the room before she saw me. Would you go see what's wrong?"

"Why didn't you say something to her?" Joan started to get up.

"She is obviously in some sort of distress and I was unsure how to proceed. Kindness and caring are your areas of expertise." He extended a hand and helped her up.

"You are just as able as I am to help a friend. I know you are."

"I have a tendency to muck things up where emotions are concerned. Please, go see if she's alright?" he urged her on.

"Yes; but you are coming with me." Joan gave his shoulder a gentle push forward. 

 

Ms. Hudson stood at the kitchen counter wiping her eyes with a white handkerchief when they walked in.

"Ms Hudson, what's wrong?" Joan walked up to her an placed a hand on her arm.

She shrugged and gave a little laugh, "Oh nothing. You know how it is. Sometimes you start thinking about the past, the mistakes you've made, the people you hurt and well, tears fall. I'm alright. Really."

Sherlock, who had stood back just a little, moved closer, listened and nodded. His eyes grew wide as he stared at Joan's profile beside him, his voice dropped the lecturer's edge that so often accompanied his commentary. "Understandable. I think we all have regrets ... the sorrow for the wounds we selfishly and carelessly inflict on those for whom we care most ... things for which we cannot forgive ourselves." His voice trailed off. 

Joan cut her eyes toward him; Sherlock quickly shifted his gaze away from her and looked down. 

Joan sighed, "You two stop this right now. Berating yourselves for past actions is counterproductive and senseless. It can even have physiological as well as psychological effects. You need to forgive yourself, let it go and move on. You can't carry guilt with you forever."

Sherlock snorted loudly and Ms Hudson gave her a thin lipped smile and shook her head. 

Joan looked from one to the other, "What? It's true...."

Ms. Hudson patted Joan's hand. "Yes, we know." 

"Hmmm, for some reason, the phrase, "Physician, heal thyself" springs to mind." Sherlock looked at Joan with a raised eyebrow.

She stared at him, and then at Ms. Hudson. "I don't ... Well, I sometimes ... But not to the extent ... I mean ..." Joan realized she was caught. They knew her too well. Ms. Hudson gave her a sympathetic smile while Sherlock bobbed his head before her.

"Fine." She threw-in the towel, "We are all guilt-ridden, miserable excuses for human beings. One of you put the kettle on. I'll get the cookies."


	22. NairobiWonders?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #25: Picture Prompt: Fanworks Through the Ages. (Picture of a poem published in the Milwaulkee Ledger, 1895.)
> 
> Chapter 22: NairobiWonders?

"Watson, look at this."

Joan peered across at the screen of his laptop, "What is it?"

"It is a website dedicated to stories about us." He scanned through pages of material.

"What do you mean about us?" Joan's interest was piqued and she reached for her glasses.

"One of the members of Everyone pointed out we have a certain amount of online fans of our work and apparently, our personal lives as well. There are scads of what these people call "fic" written about us." 

Joan stopped his scrolling and read. "That's kind of creepy."

"It's almost flattering in an intrusive sort of way." Sherlock scanned through some more titles. "One of the worst offenders is this one," he pointed at the screen. "NairobiWonders." She has close to seventy of these fics written just about our relationship. Her whole purpose in life seems to be to invent scenarios to get us to hug and her stories invariably end with us engaged in some sort of sexual activity."

Joan read a little of the story Sherlock had opened. She shook her head, "I would never ...." She read a little more, "This person doesn't have a clue as to the nature of our relationship."

Sherlock nodded his head in agreement.

With a burst of energy, Joan threw back the covers, "Alright. Enough lolly-gagging in bed." She reached over and kissed him softly on the lips, closing his laptop at the same time. "Put your pants on and meet me downstairs. We have work to do."


	23. Dr. Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #26: The One You Were Expecting: Everyone expects certain kinds of prompts in JWP. Today's prompt is exactly that: the one you personally had expected to see by now...
> 
> I had no expectations, so I chose to do a short piece, with a very lose Frankenstein influence, melodramatic, set in the last episode of season three. Joan is the one who finds Sherlock 
> 
> Chapter 23: Dr. Watson

Lightning flashed. She saw the dark mass up ahead, sprawled across the rails. A part of her turned inward, running deep within, hiding from the pain that was to come. Joan vainly screamed his name into the wind and blindly sprinted towards him. Her heart pounded in her ears. 

It was hubris to think she could bring someone back from the dead. She failed so many times before ... watched blood and life drain away in front of her .... clamped eyes shut as bullets tore through flesh .... failed to stop the flow of poison ...

But him, him ... she would not let go. 

She would hand sew limbs and organs back into human facsimile if she had to; she would breathe life into his lungs and with bare hands force his heart to beat but she would not let death take him.

Lightning flashed again as she fell to the ground beside him and reached out to him. Ice cold, flesh drained of all color, limp, but alive! 

A slurred semblance of her name drooled from his lips. She exhaled a prayer of gratitude and angrily beseeched a deity she had long ago forsaken for help in keeping him with her. 

He was hers and she would not let death take him.


	24. No time for revolving doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #27: Aside from yourself, I have none." Sherlock Holmes is supposed to be the anti-social one with Watson as his only friend. But who are Watson's friends outside of Sherlock Holmes?
> 
> Chapter 24: No time for revolving doors

"Are you embarrassed by my relapse?"

"Of course not. Don't be absurd."

Sherlock studied her for a second, "Then why are you upset that I told Emily about my fall? She called me out of concern for you, cited the numerous times she'd tried to contact you and received no response."

"There was a reason for that," Joan plopped onto the sofa.

"Yes. And I told your friend the reason. Me. You've been preoccupied with keeping me afloat as it were and not taking proper care of yourself."

"Sherlock, that's not true."

"Oh, isn't it? During my convalescence, for lack of a better word, you've been at my side night and day, you've taken on the lion's share of our work and have been acting as a human buffer between father and myself. You are paying for my mistake and that is unacceptable. I said as much to Emily. You need time for yourself and your friends and I told her I would urge you to contact her."

Joan looked at him in disbelief. "You didn't!" Her hand slapped the sofa. "Dammit Sherlock! I know you believe you were acting out of love and kindness but ..." She took a breath and looked around the room for a way to explain it to him while Sherlock stood over her blinking in confusion. 

Joan plucked the words out of the air with care, "Emily is an old friend and I love her dearly but she has spent the majority of our relationship trying to fix me. She believes her life is idyllic and my life is somewhat lacking and sad because I don't have a husband or children. She cannot conceive of me being content as I am."

Joan stopped and looked at the still confused Sherlock. "And for the record, I am quite happy, not beleaguered, not put upon. I do what I do because it is what makes me happy, fulfills me. And Emily cannot seem to understand that."

"Then tell her so!" Sherlock shrugged his shoulders at Joan.

"I have. But she doesn't believe I can be happy without a family and children." Joan brought her hand up to her forehead. "And now she's going to go on and on about you. She equates you with Liam. By telling her you relapsed, she now will once again go to god knows what lengths to save me from me, to get me away from your Svengali-hold over me."

A sadness clouded Sherlock's eyes. "Has it occurred to you she may be right?" 

Joan glared at him, "What? That you have a Svengali-hold over me?"

"No. That perhaps I am like Liam, doomed to take fall after fall, and drag you down with me. That you should run as far as you can ..." His head turned away from her, his hands hid in his pockets. 

"You are nothing like him. You are honest about your shortcomings and willing to fight this addiction for yourself and ... and for me. Liam never did, never even tried. And you, unlike Emily, believe in me as an individual. ... for the most part." He raised his head and met her eyes. 

Joan continued. "I know what I want and where I want to be. I've been a coward about facing Emily. I guess it is time to have a real talk with her." She stood, "I'll see if we can meet for lunch tomorrow. You want to come with me for back up?" she teased. 

Sherlock gave her his immediate response, "If it would help."

Joan shook her and smiled at him, "No. You don't have to."


	25. "Noir by NairobiWonders"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #28: Bad, Bad, oh so Bad! Whether it's bad art, bad fiction, or just plain awful, let the badness inspire you in some way today. Take a bad song and make it better, or make it so bad it's good? It's up to you!
> 
> I took them at their word: Bad, really bad .... (reference to Prompt #25, Chapter 22)
> 
> Chapter 25: "Noir by NairobiWonders"

The tall blonde walked in, took off her rhinestone encrusted sunglasses and surveyed the joint. The basement office was small, dank, dark. Jessica had been referred to them by the friend of a friend and now she was wondering just how much of a friend they really were.

Fedora-clad and looking harried, the woman who answered the door identified herself as Watson. "I was just on my way out."

"This won't take long, I promise." For all her statuesqueness, the dame looked weak, in need of help, kind of helpless in a weak sort of way.

Watson, always a sucker for people in need of help, took pity on the woman and waived Jessica in the direction of a threadbare and wobbly office chair. The private eye took her place behind the nondescript desk, propped her high-heeled boots on it, sat back in her chair, pushed the hat back a bit on her head, took a breath, looked quizzically at the blonde and said, "So.... What can we do for you, Miss?"

"Ms. Devraux, Jessica Devraux. I need help."

"Don't we all."

"My ex emptied out my bank account and vanished. I need you to find him." Jessica took out a tiny hankie and dabbed at her eyes. "I don't care about the money, I just want to make sure he's okay."

Watson rolled her eyes and muttered "another idiot" under her breath, before directly addressing the woman. "No offense, but how do you intend to pay for our services if he cleaned you out?"

"Oh, I kept the majority of my money in a coffee can." Jessica opened her large sequined purse and brought out fistfuls of twenties, fifties, hundreds. 

Watson's feet dropped off the desk with a resounding thud and she sat up ram straight, eyes wide open. "SHERLOCK!" She yelled at the top of her lungs without taking her eyes off the money. 

The door at the top of the stairs squeaked open and a man made his way slowly down. His shirt and pants fit tight around his physique and were tailored to show off his best assets. He sidled up next to Watson, placed a hand on the back of her chair, raised an eyebrow at her and waited for her to speak.

"Sherlock, this is Ms. Devraux. Ms. Devraux, Sherlock Holmes." He nodded condescendingly at her. Watson continued, "She needs to find her ex."

Sherlock stared at Jessica, examining her features, clothing and demeanor for a few seconds. He turned to Watson, "His name is Alan Smythe. He is currently holed up at the Easy Inn Motel in upstate New York with a large, rather burly woman named Sal."

Jessica's mouth dropped open, "Why that good for nothing creep! He ran off with my mother!"

Watson came round the desk, stood in front of her and relieved Jessica of the wads of cash she clutched in her hands, "Yup. That's the way it looks. Sherlock, show Ms. Devraux to the door."

Ms. Devraux having been shown out, Sherlock came back to Watson's side. She stood at the desk flattening out out the crunched bills and counting out their money. He put his arms around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. Watson turned and kissed him, "You done good, honey!"

* * *

"OH MY GOD!" Joan slammed the laptop closed in disgust. "SHERLOCK! Can we sue this NairobiWonders woman for slander? Libel? How do we make her stop!"

Sherlock shook his head, "Sadly, Watson, we cannot. We are in public domain."


	26. Hungry like the ....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #29: image prompt - snow wolf
> 
> Struggled with this one. Go read Time_converges and Amindamazed's entries; they both did splendid jobs with the prompt. Mine is mostly lyrics ...
> 
> Chapter 26: Hungry like the ...

Sherlock heard her singing as he came down the stairs. Her voice was not bad; it was adequate. Pleasant, he thought, would possibly describe it best. He rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped at the threshold.

Watson was washing dishes. Earbuds in place, music on full blast, she sang along, her energy level increasing as she went.

_Do do do do do do do dodo dododo dodo_

_In touch with the ground_  
_I'm on the hunt I'm after you_  
_Smell like I sound I'm lost in a crowd._  
_And I'm hungry like the wolf._

She started moving as she sang. Sherlock watched her small frame arch and stretch at the sink in time to the lyrics. Not one to usually ogle Watson, he couldn't help but be mesmerized by the swing of her hips and the almost sensual sway of her well formed posterior ...

_Straddle the line in discord and rhyme_  
_I'm on the hunt I'm after you._  
_Mouth is alive with juices like wine_  
_And I'm hungry like the wolf_

Suddenly, she turned and faced him, coming at him in a rather predatory manner, still singing ...

_In touch with the ground_  
_I'm on the hunt I'm after you_  
_Scent and a sound. I'm lost and I'm found_  
_And I'm hungry like the wolf._  
_Strut on a line it's discord and rhyme_  
_I howl and I whine I'm after you_  
_Mouth is alive all running inside_  
_And I'm hungry like the wolf._

Sherlock stood stock still not knowing how to react. She was upon him quickly, body right up to his, pretending to caress his face with the dishtowel she still held. He didn't know where to look; stiffly moving his head away from her reach. A smile grew on her face. 

An embarrassed Sherlock stopped her by reaching and taking the towel out her hand, "You win. You win. It was inappropriate of me not to announce my entry into the kitchen."

Joan continued singing softly at him, still uncomfortably close, still undulating in time to the music in her ears.

_Hungry like the wolf_  
_Hungry like the wolf_

"Watson! Stop ... Watson! ...." His face was turning red; he took a small step back.

Joan continued...  
_Hungry like the wolf_

Sherlock took another step back and not knowing what else to do quickly turned and headed back upstairs. 

Joan took the earbuds out and called after him, "Where are you going? Flock of Seagulls is up next." A huge grin shined from her face and placing the earbuds back in her ears she moved towards the sink singing in her best Scottish brogue, _"And he rrran, he rrran so farrr away ay ay...."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming most are familiar with Duran Duran's Hungry Like the Wolf. In case you aren't, here's a link to the video  
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=oOg5VxrRTi0


	27. You are going to die tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #30: a warning - you are going to die tonight
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter 27 - "you are going to die tonight." A strange man appears at the brownstone's front door.

"I haave a mehsaage for Sherlck Holmehs!" Clad in black, with his chin haughtily held in the air, he raised an eyebrow at her and awaited her response. 

It took Joan a second to work out what the strange man on their doorstep had just said. She could not place the accent - Romanian or Czech or maybe just false.

The man took a step towards her, "You ..." He dramatically whipped the sunglasses from his face and peered at her closely, "You kerry many sehkrits ... You arr like heem."

She didn't have time for this. This guy was clearly Sherlock's problem. "Sherlock!" Her voice traveled behind her and was quickly answered.

"Coming." Sherlock walked towards them from the library. 

"This man has a message for you." Joan stepped aside as Sherlock came to the door.

A smirk of recognition was his first response. "Yappi! My, my ... It's been a while. What has brought you to darken my doorstep."

"I hahve hed a preemoneeshun. The Stoopendus Yappi brings a warnink."

"Do tell!" Sherlock flashed his eyes and bounced a bit, feigning excitement. Joan noted that he had yet to invite Mr. Yappi into the house and in fact, blocked the doorway to prevent him slipping in.

The Stupendous Yappi squinted at Sherlock and dramatically proclaimed, "You are going to die tonight!" Joan noted that the strange accent, while still present, had softened. 

"Really!" Sherlock shook his head, "Well, I'd best prepare then, hmm?" He flashed teeth in the semblance of a smile at Yappi. "Thank you for letting me know. Bye-bye now." And with that he closed the door on the rather confused man.

"What was all that about? How do you know that guy?" Joan followed him away from the door. 

Sherlock stopped to answer her. "The Stupendous Yappi claims to have supernatural powers, speaks to the dead, has visions .... the usual hokum. He offers his services to the police quite often, which is how we met a few years ago."

"He thinks you believe him." Disbelief in anything other than concrete facts was the hallmark of Sherlock's personality.

"Yes. That, in and of itself, speaks volumes as to the quality of his psychic abilities, does it not?" Sherlock walked back towards his work.

"Why don't you tell him you think he's a fraud?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, "He amuses me."

With no warning, the library ladder, which he had left laden with books, collapsed, sending wood, metal and ancient tomes, cascading down and towards Sherlock. He jumped to the side and pushed Joan out of harm's way.

They lay prone on the floor. Raising their heads, they surveyed the damage. Sherlock met the challenge in Joan's eyes. 

"Coincidence, Watson. Merely coincidence."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed Mr. Yappi from the X-files. I figured who else could serve a a death warning with such panache!


	28. SexBlanketBabe Gets Comments and Kudos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #31: Putting on a Show. Canon is full of colourful characters, and we all know Holmes loves an audience for his deductions. Whether it's a grand gesture, breaking the fourth wall, or just the conclusion of a case in front of a crowd, make an audience part of today's entry.
> 
> Chapter 28: "SexBlanketBabe Gets Kudos and Comments."  
> Joan writes her own fic. Okay. I broke the fourth wall and much to my shame stepped in. I apologize for the silliness - but it's the last prompt! Woo hoo! Now I am free to ... to ... probably go write more drivel ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading along and commenting this month!

Joan sat with her laptop open, staring. During a fifty-seven second span of time, he observed her refreshing the screen seven times. 

An intrigued Sherlock interrupted her, "Watson, if I may ask, what are you doing?"

Joan pulled herself away from the screen, "I uhm ... wrote a little something ... and posted it on line." 

Slight embarrassment with a hint of guilt showed on her face, at least so it appeared to him. If his assessment was correct, he wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he asked anyway."What have you written?" 

"I believe the term they use is "joanlock." If I can't stop that NairobiWonders person, I thought I would beat her at her own game. To use the vernacular of the site, it's fluffy shmoop bordering on out and out smut." Joan cringed and waited for his reaction. 

"Watson! You didn't! I hope you used a pseudonym at least."

"SexBlanketBabe?" she smiled nervously at him. "I thought that would pull readers in." The ridiculousness of what she was saying caused a slight pinking of her cheeks. 

Sherlock tried to reconcile her words and actions to the Watson he knew and loved.

"Watson ... dear ... Do you think that perhaps you've gotten carried away just a smidge?"

Joan refreshed the screen while he talked, "Ooooh!" She straightened up in her chair, "I just got 129 views, 31 kudos and 7 comments! Joan smiled excitedly at him. "Take that NairobiWonders!"

"May I see what you wrote?" 

She hesitated before passing him the laptop, "Remember its fiction. It's not really us. I wrote it quickly and I was angry. I didn't proof and ..."

He stopped her many caveats with a wave of his hand and started reading. Sherlock's eyes grew wide but he kept reading. "Watson ... This is filth!" He intoned with a mixture of awe and reproach, "You even included the thing with the snake tattoo that we ..." He shook his head to clear the image out of his head for fear of further arousal.

"I know, I shouldn't, I'll delete it." She moved to take back the laptop and he stopped her.

"No, no, no. Leave it. It's an interesting experiment in human behavior. There is much to be learned here." He refreshed the screen as he spoke. "Look." Sherlock grimaced and passed her the laptop. You have a comment from NairobiWonders."

> "Wowser! Steamy! Thank you for posting this. I love it! While your take on Joan and Sherlock's characters are kind of OOC, they are still adorable. Welcome to the fandom! And write more - you'll get the hang of writing them soon enough. ~NW" 


End file.
